


place your hand in mine, i'll leave when i wanna

by jolt



Series: drop a heart, break a name [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, I took a bunch of hockey guys and threw them into bands, M/M, The Warped Tour AU nobody asked for, this is so niche oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolt/pseuds/jolt
Summary: Tyler knows he looks like the kind of douchebag who listens to rap or, like, ska bands from the early 2000s, but he actually has a secret affinity for happy pop songs and, unabashedly, Blink-182 and Fall Out Boy and stuff. The music a lot of people pretend to have grown out of or be too cool for.Tyler thinks Jamie looks like the kind of guy who loves songs about trucks, but mainly because he thinks he's built like one.(Or, the Warped Tour AU)





	place your hand in mine, i'll leave when i wanna

**Author's Note:**

> The one where I get nostalgic for bandom and force a bunch of hockey guys into bands who tour together and fall in love. Set in late 2000s-early 2010s when people still genuinely used iPods and Rick-Rolling was a thing don’t ask me I don’t make the rules.
> 
> Also, if the bands don't quite make sense to you at first, just know that I initially meant to keep guys from the same teams in the same bands but that whole entire project got away from me.
> 
> Warped Tour/pop punk/music elitists beware! This fic is 100% self-indulgent and 100% cheesy.
> 
> The title is, obviously, from Feeling This by Blink.
> 
> Enjoy! Feedback is super appreciated.

The summer starts without Tyler’s permission, as always.

 

It feels like just yesterday that Tyler was still half buried under crew neck sweaters with too-long sleeves when Marchy called a Code Red meeting and announced that they’d be playing Warped Tour this summer. Everyone was just shy of playing it cool, exchanging nervous, bright-eyed glances, and barely holding it together because _holy shit_. 

To be fair, it _was_ sort of half-expected, with speculation running rampant after their last album, _Misery Loves Honesty_ far surpassed everyone’s expectations both in terms of sales and fanbase growth. And, despite grumbling among some online communities about bygone days and commercialization, Warped is pretty fair about giving small, grassroots bands at least a string of dates here and there. But still, this is bigger than anything they’ve done to date. Last summer, they did a gig in someone’s weird aunt’s basement in Etobicoke. So an _entire summer_ on Warped Tour, by comparison, is at least a step in the right direction. It’s also, like, a stupid impressive gig to land without having a real, proper tour manager (unless you count the occasional administrative assistance provided by Brendan Gallagher. Which they don’t). 

The Blue Line Strike has two guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, a singer, and a big old ugly white Chevy van and attached trailer for the lot of them and their gear. The van, plastered inside and out with cheap, random stickers (Leafs stickers, band stickers, even a fucking Apple sticker that Beau put on the fuel door to remind everyone he bought a MacBook last year), just barely fits everything, and they got it for $300 off someone’s dad’s friend, but it’s lasted them the past year and half, so it’s basically a part of the band. Tyler doesn’t expect them to part with it any time soon, even if they could afford to (which they can’t). Playing music has always been what TBLS have been about, even when they couldn’t really play music very well and just spent hours practicing the _Dammit_ and _Seven Nation Army_ riffs in Bergy’s basement. Tyler likes to think they’ve grown since then.

 

\-------

 

Tour starts in New Jersey, and Tyler’s still getting used to the idea of them being on _Warped Tour all summer_ , when he sees a guy, tall as the fucking sky and just as broad, walk past while deep in conversation with Sidney fucking Crosby. It’s quite a sight, he must admit, what with it being early in the morning on Day One. To say he’s _starstruck_ wouldn’t be the right word (although, _Sidney fucking Crosby_ ), considering Tyler doesn’t quite recognize the dude. Awestruck also sounds fucking lame, because Tyler mostly notices him because he’s sexy as _hell_. Tyler would be lying if he pretended the sheer _size_ of this guy doesn’t send chills rushing down his spine at lightning speed. And Christ, it’s Day One of their first big break and he’s already on the hunt for some guy to plow him. 

It’s maybe not the most professional he’s ever been, but it’s also not the least, so.

Miraculously, they stop walking in front of his tent. Tyler’s met Sidney-fucking-Crosby once, in passing, at a gig last fall when they opened for Your Overtime Heroes at their Toronto show. Sidney is the type of person who remembers people, or at least is nice enough not to pretend he doesn’t, so he waves.

“Tyler, right?” Sidney-fucking-Crosby calls.

“Yeah, man. Hey.” Tyler’s come to think of him as Sidney-fucking-Crosby in his mind, a delicate combination of awe and envy, but mostly awe, which is why he’s totally shitting this second introduction.

_And_ , revelation of the fucking century, Tyler realizes the guy Sidney-fucking-Crosby is walking and talking with is Jamie Benn, Your Overtime Heroes’s guitarist. Duh, it makes sense that they’d be walking together, but Tyler only barely recognizes him, because in the span between their huge NME cover and today, Jamie’s managed to get that stupid sexy haircut where it's all shaved on the sides but still long and floppy on top. Tyler remembers that NME spread vividly: four massive dudes awkwardly crouched down to pose, surrounding Sid like he was precious cargo. The camera angled upwards to make all these menacing-looking, floppy haired dudes with crossed arms and black t-shirts look larger than life. Never mind that every other guy in that band had a solid three inches on Sid — he still looked like the leader. It was that intense kind of photo-spread that screams _we take ourselves seriously_ , which is, like, the complete opposite vibe from anything Tyler's band has ever tried to achieve. But hey, it’s still a huge deal to be on the cover of anything, so Tyler isn’t really at liberty to pass judgment.

Before he can address Jamie in any way, leering and flirtatious or otherwise, Sidney-fucking-Crosby is saying, “I’ll see you around,” and cocking his hand in a quick, half-wave, half-salute. Tyler barely maintains his composure while the pair of them walk off in the distance, but only because he gets an eyeful of their glorious asses.

 

\-------

 

Tyler runs into Jamie not an hour later, while he’s trying to juggle a bagel, a coffee, a water bottle, and his phone in front of the concessions stand. Jamie, clad in an oversized sweater with the hood pulled up, is behind him in line, and stifles a laugh when Tyler narrowly avoids dropping half his bagel on the dusty ground. Tyler grins at him. Jamie drops his eyes to the ground and awkwardly shuffles forward to place his order. 

Normally, Tyler would stick around to, like, _converse_ or something, but he’s already late for soundcheck and they play in an hour. So it’s kind of a bust encounter, but he’s rolling with it. 

The first show of Warped Tour is _nuts_. It’s not the same as other shows they’ve played, you know, since they’re playing at ten in the morning in the middle of Hoboken. But, for ten in the morning in the middle of Hoboken, the turnout is surprisingly decent. It’s obvious that some people are just milling about the edges of the crowd, just looking for something to watch, but there’s a core group parked right in front of the stage. Tyler swears he sees a few of them singing along.

Tyler’s amped. He pulls his t-shirt off halfway through their set, even though it’s barely 20 celsius, shredding it in the process. He couldn’t care less. There are kids who look no older than fifteen singing lyrics he wrote about one of the (admittedly many) times he fell in love too fast. After Marchy shouts his first _Thank you so fucking much, you beauties!_ of the summer, Tyler tugs an equally-sweaty Beau into a headlock, and the two of them jump off stage in search of water and food. A few people from the crew high five them, and Tyler even catches Marchy getting stopped for a picture, and this is fucking absurd.

“Can you believe this?” he half-shouts to Beau, whose eyes are bright and who’s smiling like it’s Christmas fucking morning.

“Hell no.” Beau answers. 

“I don’t think I’m gonna get used to — ” Tyler starts, and then promptly loses his train of thought when he spots Jamie Benn tuning his guitar in the parking lot, completely shirtless. He tries to recover, to remember where he was going with that sentence, but is utterly confounded, because, well —

Jamie's built. Not in the way Tyler is, carefully sculpted after hours at the gym, but built in a way that's entirely natural and effortless. Like, from playing sports or occupational heavy lifting or something. He probably carries their amps around and stuff. They probably have people who do that for them, but Jamie probably volunteers to help. That seems like something he’d probably do.

“You okay, dude?” Beau asks, waving his hand in front of Tyler’s face.

“Hmm? Yeah, I’m awesome.”

So, presumably, Tyler needs a _reason_ to go up and talk to him, one that doesn’t involve being kind of a creep about how badly he wants to jump him. But his mind is blank, it’s elevator music while he tells Beau to go on without him and saunters up to Jamie Benn, professional musician, whose band sells out major venues all over the country and whose music video Tyler’s seen on MTV. Tyler’s good at improvising, though, or so he thinks. He’s always been quick on his toes. And besides, three chance encounters in a single day has to _mean_ something, right?

“Hi,” Tyler says. Jamie looks up, “how’s it going?”

“Uh, good?”

Jamie seems confused, like he’s not quite sure why another human being is trying to interact with him right now, but it’s too damn bad for him because he answered so Tyler’s gonna take that as an invitation to keep talking.

“I’m Tyler.”

“Yeah, I remember. I was with Sid before and — yeah.” 

And he’s _adorable_ , this is insane. Tyler’s fucking smitten. “Cool.”

“Um, I’m Jamie.”

“I obviously know who you are because I haven’t been living under a rock for the past, like, five years. So, nice to meet you.”

Jamie huffs a laugh. “You too.”

Tyler peels himself away from Jamie’s side only after PK’s fourth consecutive _where are u???_ text, reminding himself that excruciating, ill-timed interviews are just a part of being on the Warped lineup, and this has been their dream for so long that he can’t flub it now. He realizes, when he catches up with the others, that he completely blanked and forgot to get Jamie’s number.

 

\-------

 

To compensate, Tyler absolutely doesn’t look up Jamie’s Twitter, or obsessively scroll through it until he finds himself semi-capable of assessing Jamie’s (admittedly) dorky, endearing personality. He certainly doesn’t make sure to download more of Your Overtime Heroes’s music onto Beau’s laptop so he can fully immerse himself in their sound. Tyler’s been told he has no chill, and that’s probably fair. He falls in love far too easily, which is great when you have to write an entire album’s worth of songs, but kind of sucks when your heart gets broken every other week. So, yeah, Jamie’s really hot and he plays guitar in a majorly successful band and he tweets about what old ladies tell him in the grocery line, and Tyler’s barely straddling the line between wanting to be his friend and wanting to flip out because he’s _Jamie Benn_ of _YOH_. He also knows, the moment he identifies Jamie’s backup vocals on a slow track, that he’s got a crush forming. It’s fine.

 

\-------

 

They start seeing more of each other, is the thing. PK, being PK, becomes instant friends with absolutely everyone he meets, and it’s cute, how Tyler used to think _he_ was charming until he met Pernell-Karl Subban. So naturally, he’s the first to get the invite to _things_ , and when he’s not with the guys, he’s forming surprisingly meaningful bonds with surprising people like Sidney-fucking-Crosby and Carey-fucking-Price. It’s a little mind-boggling, sure, but —

it just so happens this means Jamie is around more often. Score. 

“This is your first Warped, right?” Jamie asks, at one of PK’s _things_ , loud enough for only Tyler to hear.

“Yeah,” Tyler answers, suddenly bashful, “it’s our biggest tour yet.”

“Right on. Warped is awesome. There’s literally just so much to do, it’s so awesome. So many awesome bands.”

Tyler figures Jamie must have already had a beer or two, or at least hit a bowl, because he’s about a thousand times more talkative than Tyler has personally ever experienced, and he just said _awesome_ three times in a row. He’ll take it, though, because the party is loud, and Jamie keeps leaning in to talk, breath warm as it ghosts the shell of Tyler’s ear.

“What about you guys?” Tyler shouts, over the sounds of hollering and Bad Religion.

Jamie shrugs. “This is our third. Last summer we were in Japan.”

He says it like it’s no big deal, or like maybe he’s ashamed of it. Tyler slaps him on the arm. “Whoa, that’s sick, though!”

Tyler doesn’t even feel like he’s flirting — not consciously, anyway. Something about Jamie makes him giddy, and maybe it’s just his musical (and physical) stature, but Tyler feels like his head is spinning and there are a million things he wants to say but can’t quite spit out. He absently reaches to put it into words in the back of his mind, his brain forming lyrics without his permission, like it always does.

“Yeah, it was really cool. Hey, congrats on the album, by the way. Jordie fucking loves it because it reminds him of the good old days or some shit.”

Tyler gapes. “Fuck off, are you kidding? You guys listened to it?”

“Yeah!”

Tyler, only marginally, wants to die at that.

 

\-------

 

He watches Jamie's set the next day, if only because he's looking for an excuse to stare at Jamie's thick legs. But man, the guy's good. He can fucking shred and his backup vocals aren't the same pitchy garbage mess that Tyler's are; he actually has a decent voice. Up on stage, Jamie's like a totally different person. He's commanding and confident, and looks as comfortable as Tyler has probably ever seen him. He has several guitar solos that he positively _nails_ and it’s totally sick. The way he throws himself into every song is infectious, and if Tyler didn’t understand the dynamic of their band before, he completely clues in now.

Their band is, like, old school, no-pretences pop punk, but with definite rock undertones. Garage-core type of stuff with heavy vocals, strong riffs, and a powerful base line provided by none other than Jamie’s far more bearded brother, Jordie. The four of them are kind of mismatched and hodgepodge, like they never bothered to agree upon a single, unified aesthetic, but in a way that definitely works. Seeing them play live is out of this world.

Of course, compared to Sidney fucking Crosby’s complex guitar riffs and layered chord progressions, Tyler’s band seems kind of immature, _unsophisticated_ , for following the same basic four-chord pattern for, like, ninety percent of their songs. Their songs might be more simplistic than Sid’s, but they’re loud and have a crap-ton of heart, and Marchy’s got the kind of nasally voice that works beautifully for new-school. Besides, it got them on fucking Warped Tour, so who’s laughing now.

(Sid. Sid is most definitely the one laughing because Tyler’s heard from various websites that they’re about to sign with Mario Lemieux’s label.)

Regardless, the energy is amazing: hundreds of kids shouting the lyrics back to Sid, the appropriate amount of moshing (which is a fuck ton), and the occasional attempted crowd-surf. It reminds Tyler of being a kid in one of these crowds, back in middle school, when he and Marchy got their first taste of what it could be like to be in a band. All Tyler’s ever wanted was to play in a band, to generate this kind of electricity, and he can’t really play guitar for shit, but that never even mattered. All that mattered was _this_.

PK nudges Tyler out of his reverie, shouting above the feedback from the amps they’re standing next to. “Yo, this is _nuts_!”

Tyler has to agree.

 

\-------

 

Tyler heads back to the van feeling alive and inspired, motivation fuelled by being surrounded by such genius. He grabs his iPod and his notebook and parks his ass on a lawn chair under one of the venue’s few shady trees. It feels like he’s there for hours, scribbling aimlessly and alternating between metal and pop songs on his iPod. He’s totally lost in his own head, when he sees Jamie in the distance, walking towards him.

“What are you listening to?” Jamie asks, tapping his left ear, probably to indicate Tyler’s earbuds. Tyler takes one out and hands it to Jamie. 

A lot of Tyler's favourite songs qualify as bona fide guilty pleasure songs, but it took Tyler years to not feel a shred of shame for loving them. His tastes are eclectic, which is a good thing when you're in a band, writing music, because he can pull influences from several different genres for a single song. Even so, despite how comfortable he is in himself and his taste in music, he can't help but feel on edge when Jamie asks for his iPod and starts scrolling through it.

Jamie chokes out a laugh. "You have so much Madonna, oh my god."

"Don't tell me you're about to hate on Madge. I swear to god, Jamie, that is not cool." Tyler grabs the iPod out of Jamie's big hand, ignoring the feeling of his fingers on Jamie's skin. He plays _Open Your Heart_. "This song is a classic."

Jamie just nods, humming along, and takes the iPod back. Tyler knows he looks like the kind of douchebag who listens to rap or, like, ska bands from the early 2000s, but he actually has a secret affinity for happy pop songs and, unabashedly, Blink-182 and Fall Out Boy and stuff. The music a lot of people pretend to have grown out of or be too cool for.

Tyler thinks Jamie looks like the kind of guy who loves songs about trucks, but mainly because he thinks he's built like one.

“Is this what you grew up listening to?” Jamie asks, playing Cher’s _Believe_ casually, like he didn’t just open up Tyler’s favourite topic of conversation.

“Yeah, my dad used to play Queen and AC/DC _all the time_ and my mom just loved anything she could dance to. Which was impressively a lot.”

“I’m from out West, so my parents are obsessed with country,” Jamie says, and Tyler bites back _I fucking knew it!_ “but it was Jordie who got me into shit like what we play now.”

They sit together in relative silence, song bleeding into shuffled song, before Tyler gets the idea to play the one country song on his iPod, _Before He Cheats_ , which he’s not even sure passes for real country. It makes Jamie laugh, nonetheless, so mission accomplished. Then suddenly, Jamie’s digging around his pocket for his phone, and plugging the buds into its headphone jack.

“Sorry,” he says, looking exactly the opposite, “I have to show you — this is my most important influence.”

Tyler waits, anticipation building as the song buffers, and —

The painfully familiar opening notes of _Never Gonna Give You Up_ come blaring into his right ear. Tyler musters up his most convincing grumpy face and shoves Jamie so hard he loses balance and the earbud slips out of his ear. It doesn’t look like he minds, though — he’s too busy laughing his stupid ass off.

“I’m so mad at you — hey, stop laughing! I’m serious, dude, I though this was gonna be some huge revelation.” At that, Jamie just laughs harder, and Tyler sheds the act to laugh with him.

 

\-------

 

There’s another party that night, because there’s a party every night, apparently, and Tyler never wants this to end. They don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow besides coasting down the I-95, so everyone seems to just be strung out and lazy and happy. It’s really fucking cool, actually.

Tyler’s looking around, trying to soak it all in, when he suddenly feels fingers curling around the inside of his elbow. He looks up, and it’s Jamie, veering him off towards a bonfire pit surrounded by various members of various bands and their crews. It would be dumb to say it reminds him of high school, because this is millions of worlds away, but that’s kind of how it makes Tyler feel — that warm, nostalgic tugging in his chest that only intensifies whenever Jamie looks at him. Luckily, it’s dark enough that no one would be able to tell if he’s blushing unless they look very closely. And he doubts anyone’s looking closely, since they all seem to be in their own worlds tonight. It’s probably some exceptional weed.

“Thirsty?” Jamie asks, and Tyler wasn’t before, but suddenly he’s parched. 

The days are just starting to crawl into sticky hot, and tonight, the air is so thick it feels like Tyler has to wade through it. Jamie passes him a beer — some fancy fucking craft beer that Tyler doesn't recognize — and the label is peeling around the edges from condensation and Tyler drinks it fast so he can stop accidentally-on-purpose making eyes at Jamie from across the bonfire pit. 

Jamie keeps nudging his way into Tyler’s space, though. Even after successfully introducing himself to most people around the pit, Tyler feels himself drawn back to Jamie. It’s a pull, a tide deep in Tyler’s stomach, magnetic and kind of addictive. He barely knows Jamie, but they keep finding each other, in spite of all the mingling. Jamie’s arm falls casually around his shoulders, and everything is kind of hazy from the beer and the weed, but this doesn’t feel like a ‘just bros’ kind of move. Tyler scratches his knee.

The problem is, Tyler observes entirely too late, that he’s actually starts to like Jamie — like, really like him. It sucks, a little, because he suddenly feels compelled to reassess every interaction, to rethink every time he’s gone in to touch Jamie as a bro-crush but wound up lingering because it's more of just a crush-crush. Tyler may have had flings before, but he knows the feeling of something precious. The kind of thing he wants to cradle in a locket against his chest. People hook up on tour _all the time_ — so much so that Tyler and Beau have started a game where they count how many people have hooked up with how many other people, whenever band people are together in any given situation. God knows how many skeet stains Tyler’s seen Brad or PK or Beau frantically try to wipe off the van benches (which, fucking _ew_ , guys, at least Tyler doesn’t bring it to the van). But something about the idea of hooking up with Jamie feels different, and Tyler doesn’t know if he particularly has the mental capacity to consider why, at the moment. He thinks the fact that, above anything, he just really wants to make out with Jamie while stroking his hair has something to do with it, though.

 

\-------

 

Jamie invites him to hang out on Your Overtime Heroes’s bus later in the week, as they start driving into the warmer states and the mercury on the thermometers climbs to an alarming height. It’s merciful and benevolent of him, and Tyler can't believe that not only do they have a bus, but they have fucking AC. The fake, frigid air dries the sweat on the back of his neck, and Tyler feels cool for the first time in eight days.

"I hope you realize I'm living here, now." Tyler says, eyes slipping shut. The hum from the unit is lulling.

Jordie snorts. “That so?”

“Oh yeah, no getting rid of me now. Our van doesn’t even have a functioning fan.”

“Man, I do _not_ miss the van days.”

“Nope.” Sid pipes up. For the front man of an exceedingly popular punk band, you would never guess that Sidney-fucking-Crosby has ever listened to a punk song in his life. His jeans are bootcut, rather than skinny, and most days he just opts to wear workout shorts, anyway. He’s likely never held a kohl pencil anywhere in the vicinity of his precious face, unlike Marchy, who fucking nuts over the stuff. He hasn’t even grown a beard, for heaven’s sake, like most other hardcore, non-emo emo guys have done. He just looks like an average guy with an above-average ass. It’s a little unnerving, and it makes Tyler feel like he should be wearing, like, a shirt with a collar while on his bus.

The craziest part is that he’s literally _always_ writing, whenever Tyler sees him.

“He’s never happy.” Jamie explains, half-joking, elbow poking into Tyler’s ribs. They’re lazing on the couch, watching The Hangover, but all they can hear is Sid testing out different lyrics in the back lounge.

“Sounds exhausting,” Tyler answers, because it does. Whenever he writes anything, it usually all comes out all at once, as if some otherworldly force possess him and compels him to just spew out a bunch of notes and lyrics on sheet paper. Any song that takes longer than a day to write just frustrates Tyler, despite the feeling of satisfaction that comes with finally finishing one.

“It’s part of his charm.” Shea says fondly.

As if in response, Sid belts out a particularly heartfelt rendition of a similar lyric he’d been toying with earlier that afternoon. It hits Tyler, then, that he’s really among these people. That Sid really is some kind of musical genius, and this band has had their music played on legit radio stations (not just late-night programming on some obscure student station like his band). That it doesn’t really matter so much that Tyler isn’t quite there yet, because right now, they’re all just dudes trying to watch a movie, half-annoyed, half-inspired by Sidney-fucking-Crosby’s work ethic.

 

\-------

 

Tyler's a fucking punk on stage, and he knows it. He gets so into it, buzzes across the entire stage for the whole set, and usually takes his shirt off halfway through. Sometimes he presses sloppy kisses to Marchy's cheek or neck or shoulder while he's belting into the mic just to get a rise from the crowd. The girls all shriek, mainly because Tyler's cut and Marchy's hot and it's a little unsettling how they want him but they also want him to want Marchy and this is all for show but it's part of their act. He nuzzles Marchy's shoulder with his sweaty forehead and pats his ass between songs, and Marchy fondly calls him an asshole. It's great. 

Or, it's great, until Tyler spots Jamie hovering around the edge of the crowd one afternoon. He’s sipping a beer and eyeing them curiously, like there’s something he’s not getting. He sidles up to Tyler as Tyler’s climbing off stage, half an hour later.

“You guys were really good.” Jamie says, while Tyler dumps a bottle of lukewarm water on himself. He shakes his hair out like a dog after, aiming for Jamie, who flinches away with a smile.

“Yeah?” Tyler answers.

“Yeah, your set was tight. Brad’s a good front man.”

Tyler nods. “Yeah, he is.”

“So, are you guys…?” The way his voice trails of implies something baffling that Tyler has _absolutely no time_ to even falsely entertain.

" _What_? No, dude, no.” Tyler sputters. Of course Jamie would jump to this conclusion. Except, has he never been around band guys before? All jacked full of testosterone and adrenaline?

"I mean, it makes sense. I kinda figured, since you're so... close, but."

"No, man, it's not like that. It's for show. Like half the time I don't even realize I'm doing it." Tyler doesn’t even miss a beat before blurting, ”I'm bi,” because apparently Jamie quietly confronting him encourages his over-shading tendencies. “And Marchy’s, like, strictly into chicks, so.”

“Oh,” Jamie answers, “yeah, that’s. That’s cool.”

Tyler tries not to look too relieved about Jamie apparently not being some, like, raging homophobe, which really would’ve _sucked_. Instead, he shoves Jamie’s shoulder, his wet palm sliding over Jamie’s warm skin as he does so.

“Come on, Jameson — you know I only got eyes for you.” Tyler winks. It’s probably too early in their bro-ship to be making stupid flirty comments, but that’s Tyler’s default save-face.

Jamie seems to warm at that, though, so Tyler figures he’s said the right thing. “I’m bi, too,” he says, abruptly, and Tyler almost chokes, “or, I’m something like that, anyway.” Jamie clears his throat, “You know, for the record.”

“Right on.” Tyler answers, drawing out the _on_. It’s not that Tyler is so insensitive and ignorant not to even conceivably imagine that someone like Jamie _couldn’t be_ into dudes, but. It hadn’t even crossed his mind as a possibility, outside of, you know, the odd desperate hope. So this — this is news.

“Cool.” Jamie echoes, “So now that sharing time is over, do you wanna grab a snow cone and watch The Faubourgs? Their set’s in 10 on the Monster stage.”

The Faubourgs, whose name Tyler and Jamie totally realize they’d been flubbing once Kris Letang introduces himself and his band, are a French Canadian punk band who sing mostly in French and who fucking shred. Their drummer is someone they call Flower, and he’s a _beast_ , like, Travis Barker levels of utter destruction. Tyler tells him as much, later, after he’s had one snow cone and four beers and everyone’s milling about before packing up and leaving for the night.

Flower laughs in response, sweet and toothy. “Thanks, man.” he says, through a French Canadian accent.

PK, with a wide arm slung over Tyler’s shoulder, pouts. “You have literally _never_ compared me to any famous drummer, _ever_.”

Tyler knows that’s not true, because PK is basically the heart of their band.

“That’s only because nobody can compare to you, Pernell!” He replies, stroking PK’s cheek tenderly. PK pretends to wipe a tear away. Flower’s still laughing. He’s a good guy.

A while later, a few guys start a kick flip competition, with Jamie, of all people, at the centre of it. Given his size, utter lack of grace, and general hulking demeanour, he sucks at it. Tyler watches from the sidelines as Jamie tries, and fails, several times; he just can’t get the board high enough to do a decent flip, and he even trips over his (giant, like, size 15) feet once and lands flat on his ass. When Tyler explodes into peals of laughter, Jamie looks up at him from where he’s lying on the pavement and smiles, crooked and gorgeous. Tyler pushes past a few people to offer Jamie his hand and help him up. 

“You’re amazing.” Tyler tells him, not insincerely.

“Shut your mouth.” Jamie answers, like a dork.

It’s getting late, and Tyler figures he’d better head to the van at some point. When he says as much out loud, Jamie offers to walk with him. Tyler’s that pleasant, warm kind of drunk that makes everything feel soft. The kind of drunk that would, ordinarily, compel him to hold the hand of whoever’s walking next to him. He holds back, though, for the sake of the bro-ship. Not that Jamie seems like he’d do anything to stop him if he did — but Tyler’s just happy to exist in this hazy middle ground for now, gently swaying together in the sunset. Eventually, when Jamie leads them around some empty tents instead of taking a more direct route, Tyler figures he’s meandering the long way back to the buses, and does absolutely nothing to stop him. 

Tyler has no clue what he'd be doing with his life if he weren't playing music, but he kind of wants Jamie to ask him, just so they can talk about life and where do they see themselves in a year and what did their parents think of them not going to college. Tyler wants to know everything there is to know about Jamie. He wants to unfold his psyche, or some shit like that, like taking apart a paper crane. He wants to bury himself deep in there, too, so Jamie never forgets him.

“I honestly don’t get how you can sleep in a van every night.” Jamie sighs, when they finally arrive at The Blue Line Strike’s van.

“It’s pretty punk rock, though, wouldn’t you say?”

Jamie grins and it lights up the night, lights up all of goddamn Michigan, and Tyler is winded. It’s every single song about leaving this town and finding _you_ and being alive. It’s Dashboard saying _you have stolen my heart_. “Oh, sure it is,” he laughs, “it’s hardcore.” 

“Jameson Benn, you _wish_ you were as hardcore as me.” Tyler answers, “So spoiled in your giant tour bus with _air conditioning_ and _actual beds_ , when I’m the one living the grimy dream.”

“We did it too, you know, it wasn’t always this glamorous.” Jamie says, mock-affronted.

“Sure you did, princess.” Tyler winks. His back is pressed against the side of the trailer, and he’s trying not to leer too much. He swears it’s the beer, when Jamie seems to lean in, following the tilt of Tyler’s head. _This is it_ , Tyler thinks, for a split-second, _bye-bye, bro-ship_ , but then Jamie’s coughing out an awkward goodbye, mumbling something about role-call and not wanting to make Sid mad. It’s an altogether anti-climactic end to the night, and Tyler slides into the van without saying anything to the guys. He hates the feeling of disappointment that seems to blossom in his stomach, that carves out a space for itself as though Tyler wasn’t swaying with quiet anticipation only minutes ago, alive with the feeling of possibility. 

If Jamie wanted to kiss him, he would have done it when their faces were several inches apart and the sky was glowing orange and pink. 

Tyler closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep a wink while they pull onto the highway headed towards Illinois. Touring does something to people; it’s the proximity, or something, it erases any and every normal boundary that would usually exist between people. Tyler’s not self-effacing enough to feel, like, _blessed_ and deeply thankful that Jamie is even condescending so much to entertain a friendship with him. Fuck that. Any other time, anyone else, Tyler would probably just go after what he really wants, boundaries be damned. But. He genuinely fucking _likes_ Jamie, as a person, not just as a potential hookup. So, if Jamie just wants to be friends with no conceivable boundaries besides the fact that he wouldn’t kiss Tyler, then Tyler won’t throw that in his face and say no.

They pull over at a 24 hour Dunkin’ Donuts so Pat can take a piss and Tyler can take his shift driving. His eyes are bleary, even after facing the disorienting fluorescent lights of the Dunkin', but he hopes the giant coffee he ordered will help. These drives are shitty, because everyone’s just trying to crash for a few hours, and Tyler has no one to talk to, but there’s a comfort in just following the large fleet of vans and tour buses headed in the same direction. It makes Tyler feel like he’s really part of something big and meaningful. Like, fuck yeah, they’re making a difference, somehow, even if it’s just by playing their songs to hungry kids. That somehow, the five of them, straight outta the GTA, made it to _Warped Tour_ , where they’re playing alongside bands they grew up listening to, is insane.

After that, Tyler tries not to think too much about Jamie potentially-maybe-almost kissing him tonight. For the most part, he succeeds, because he needs to be semi-alert and focused while driving. For the other part, a smaller, gnawing part, he can’t stop looping the moment over and over in his mind, this giant _what if_. 

 

\-------

 

When they get to Chicago, Tyler immediately goes to Your Overtime Heroes’s bus, because he either has a ton of self-respect or absolutely none. He’s not really sure, but this is their routine, now. They hang out until one of them has something, and find each other when they’re done their somethings. Jamie doesn’t meet Tyler’s eyes when he climbs the stairs onto the bus, just opens the door and silently invites him in. Tyler doubts they’ll ever talk about last night, not like there’s really anything to talk about, so he schools his face into perfect nonchalance and noses around their barren kitchenette cupboard in search of one of those mini boxes of cereal Shea likes to keep stocked. He barely even gets a word in before this girl from this website comes to interview Jamie. Jamie didn’t mention anything about an interview, and Tyler tries not to let it get to him, tries to look like he’s comfortable. He waves at her, but doesn’t introduce himself, instead sticking to his phone, and settling with a box of dry Froot Loops. Jamie gets her a bottled water, which is nice of him. 

Jamie stammers his way through several warm-up questions, his answers a combination of _no, yeah, it’s awesome_ and _uhhh yeah_. Tyler feels bad that one of the other guys isn’t taking this interview, that Jamie’s alone in this when Jamie can still sometimes barely string coherent sentences together with people he’s known all summer. He also somewhat pities this girl, who clearly isn’t getting the material she needs for her article.

“Come on, man, at least try to be social.” Tyler goads, from his seat at the kitchenette bench.

Jamie sputters and turns back to the girl. “I’m not — that’s not — ” he sighs, “sorry. Tyler’s a dick.”

The laughter dies in his throat when he notices the girl (Andrea? Ashley?) scoot closer to Jamie. She places a hand on his leg and tells him they can start over, as though they aren’t on a tour bus at nine in the morning and in the company of another person. He feels jealousy rise in his stomach, visceral and fucking uncalled for, and he really hopes she doesn’t start hitting on Jamie, because he won’t know what to do (would he have to leave? Would he stay and defend Jamie’s honour?) and he’s not sure he can sit through that, faux chill, after what literally _just_ almost transpired between him and Jamie. Jamie got so downright _awkward_ once the tension between them ran electric and tangible, and Tyler knows he really has no place being jealous, but he silently begs the Warped Tour gods not to put him in this situation.

The Warped Tour gods hear his plea, apparently, when Pat sends him a text about needing help at the merch tent. The girl doesn’t spare Tyler a second glance as he leaves, and, Tyler notices disappointedly, that neither does Jamie.

 

\-------

 

It takes a while for Tyler to drag himself out of the funk from being rejected by Jamie, but he manages. Hell, he even goes out of his way to still be friends with Jamie — to be _better_ friends with Jamie than he already was, than he ever thought he could be, given how briefly they’ve really known each other. It works, mostly, because Jamie agrees to about eighty percent of the dumb shit Tyler suggests they do, which is a fun way to distract from the heaps of feelings he still has, and they get drunk a lot, which, ditto. 

It doesn’t work as well as he’d thought, _apparently_ , because his heart still pummels against his ribcage when Jamie calls him in Kansas.

“Dude, _why_ are you calling me?” Tyler asks, because this kind of particular, honed in attention from Jamie still leaves him woozy, even when it happens on a near-daily basis.

“Come here,” Jamie slurs, sounding tipsy at three in the afternoon, “wanna show you something.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, but he’s already making his way to YOH’s tent. Sid’s they only one there, with a Molson Ex in one hand, and a notebook balanced on his lap. When he sees Tyler, he just points in the direction of the water bank, a few feet down. Tyler follows his direction and plunks down next to Jamie on the ground.

“Hey, buddy,” he greets, not touching Jamie, because that’s something he’s been trying to do since Michigan.

Jamie silently pulls out one of his earbuds and hands it to Tyler. Tyler half expects it to be _Dookie_ or Death Cab like it usually is when Jamie’s been day drinking, but it’s not. It’s something new — Tyler’s never heard it before — but it’s good. Soft and melodic and raw, with a slowly building crescendo from acoustic guitar into a massive ending. It's desperate. There's something nostalgic sounding about it, like it's been playing in the background of every drive all summer, that kind of windows-down easy that Tyler relishes.

“Who is this?” Tyler asks. “I haven’t heard it before.”

Jamie suddenly looks like he’s about ready to crawl out of his skin. “Actually, um. It’s me.”

Tyler gapes at him. “Dude, _what_? That’s _you_?”

Jamie just nods slowly, and his hands look so sweaty. Tyler refrains from grabbing them.

“This is awesome, man, it’s so good. Fuck — the key change just now?” It takes a second for Tyler to stop rambling and say what he means, “Wait, this is _just_ you? When did you do this?”

“I, uh, wrote it back in Charlotte, and recorded it while we were driving to Georgia.” Jamie answers, and Tyler’s really gotta get a handle on what he’s doing with his _face_ , it hurts from smiling. “Sid kind of installed a recording area in the back of the bus, so.”

Tyler mentally counts back: they were in Charlotte in early July. In Charlotte, Tyler forced Jamie to come with him to the Dollar Tree near the venue and buy cheap plastic water guns, and they were gonna shoot beer at everyone until they decided it would be a stupid waste of money, so they filled them with the coldest hose water they could find instead. The afternoon devolved into them watching Kris Letang and Flower’s band (with that name Tyler always fucks up) and occasionally squirting each other with the water pistols, even though they were sitting on the dirt. They were both grinning so wide, legs and hands and asses caked in mud, and Tyler remembers having this passing thought that if anyone just saw them without knowing, they’d probably think they were in love. Or just huge idiots. Or both.

“That’s so cool.” Tyler says, and he means it. He knows Jamie’s too shy to give himself any credit, and he’s still beet red, gripping his iPod so tight Tyler worries the screen might shatter. “Your voice sounds _so good_ , man, I can’t get over it.” He really wants to tell Jamie something about his song other than that it’s in some way _good_ , but he comes up totally short. He’s fucking speechless.

Against all possible odds, Jamie’s blush deepens a few shades.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever, like, get to perform it or anything. But it’s nice, having something that’s my own.” Tyler figures that’s as close as Jamie gets to being selfish. 

“Send this to me.” Tyler says, turning in his seat to look Jamie in the eye. He hopes that whatever his face is doing conveys the extent of his meaning. “I mean it; send this to me.” He’s so busy bumping their shoulders together in silent approval while Jamie replays the song, relishing the contact, that he doesn’t bother keeping track of all the lyrics and the myriad of ways he could interpret every single one.

 

\-------

 

“You guys fucked yet?” Marchy asks, when Tyler’s late for soundcheck because he was listening to Jamie’s dope ass song.

“You’re an asshole.” he replies, and Marchy just shrugs because it’s true.

“It’s, like, mid-July already.”

Tyler groans, because he _knows_ , dude, he’s been counting the days. As if he doesn’t have a strong enough grip on reality and the dwindling remaining days of tour. “I _know_. But it’s not, like, _like_ that,” he says, even though it’s definitely _like that_ for him. “We’re friends.” 

“Oh, come on,” Bergy says, à propos of fucking _nothing,_ “everyone knows you wanna eat each other’s dicks.”

“Thanks.” Tyler mumbles.

Marchy snorts. Tyler starts tuning his guitar. “If you write a song about this kid, I’m not recording it unless you fuck. Ground rules.”

“Fuck off.” he says. “Uh, Jamie wrote a song, though.”

“No shit,” Marchy answers, sounding impressed, “about you?”

Tyler shrugs. “Kind of? About this summer, and shit. It’s not about a girl.”

“Of course it’s not.”

“It’s not exactly _about_ me, either. But, you know.” Tyler shrugs again, at a loss. “I don’t even know.”

“Who else would it be about? Do I honestly have to remind you who he’s spent literally the _entire summer_ with? Please tell me I don’t. Tell me I don’t have to use PK’s PowerPoint.”

From his drum kit, PK does a _badum-tsss_. Tyler flips him off. _PowerPoint_.

Marchy continues: “We’re not even in his band and we’ve had tabs on this. Trust me, kid’s not subtle. And neither are you.”

“I don’t know. It just seems like the kind of thing I shouldn’t read into. We just get along really well.” Tyler consciously avoids mentioning already having been rejected, because he doesn’t wanna get into this right now. Not while he can still bask in the feeling of being a part of Jamie’s inner circle. The inner circle that gets to listen to beautiful songs that he secretly writes on the side of being a fucking rock star.

“Look, even if he doesn’t want you — which he obviously fucking _does_ — it’s not like you ever have to see him again, after this is over.” Marchy says, and he sounds sincere, which is a nice change from his usual sarcastic bullshit. “You don’t have much to lose.”

Tyler hums, trying to come up with a way to change the subject. He’s thought about this hundreds of times, mainly when they’re crossing state lines, passing anonymous towns overnight, how sometimes he _swears_ he catches Jamie staring at him like maybe he does return Tyler’s messy feelings, after all. How he could kiss Jamie and just gauge the reaction, and it wouldn’t have to be a big deal. If Jamie’s into it, then they kiss and shit for the rest of the summer. If he’s not, then they either go back to being tour friends, or else just stop talking, and forget about each other when it’s all done. That second possibility really stinks, though, and Tyler hates to think about how it stinks because it makes his chest all tight because he doesn’t want them to forget about each other at all.

If he falls asleep listening to Jamie’s song that night, after hastily having downloaded it to Beau’s laptop and subsequently to his iPod, sweating in the backseat, crammed between his guitar case and PK, then, whatever. He figures that, if nothing else, at least he has this. This raw, gorgeous monument to the summer he fell in love too quick and didn’t do shit about it.

 

\-------

 

A week later, Tyler’s listened to the song enough times to have memorized the entire thing, inside and out. He’s been goofing off at practice, half listening to the suggestion to alter their set list, fingers moving lazily, absently over the frets, right hand strumming gently, not even realizing what it is he’s playing until Brad stops him.

"Wait," Marchy says, in his best frontman voice, silencing everyone, ”what is that, Segs?"

Tyler feels his blush right down to his sternum. He stops playing and runs a hand through his sweaty hair, matted from his snapback. "It's the thing Jamie wrote,” he answers, well aware that nothing about either his statement nor composure is convincingly chill enough to make the other guys drop it.

"It's good. Really interesting." Bergy says, point blank, thankfully not chirping him about it.

“Yeah, uh,” Tyler answers, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, “it’s pretty fucking awesome.”

The positive reaction from the guys gives Tyler an idea. An absurd idea, admittedly not well thought out in the least, but just crazy enough to brush the cusp of genius.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal, and I know this is, like, _your_ song, but we’re always talking about playing together, I just figured we might as well try — ”

“You’re crazy.” Jamie answers. He sounds like he wants to be put out about it but just can’t be bothered. His arm finds its way around Tyler’s shoulders, yet again, this is a pattern, this is this summer’s signature move. A giant practical joke on his heart. But then, Jamie smiles and says, “yeah, let’s try it.”

They don't tell the coordinators to put it on the day's official schedule, because they don't know how well it'll go. Jamie reluctantly agrees to fire a quick tweet casually mentioning a private acoustic session performed by them, and Tyler does the same. Nobody objects because it doesn't conflict with their bands’ respective performances, Tyler's before and Jamie's after the announced time. 

Tyler feels nervous, though, and then he feels stupid for feeling nervous, because he has never in his life been nervous to play music for people. He wonders if the crowd will get it, get the significance of both of them playing on the shitty, barren stage made from palettes and 2x4s. It's possible that there's some overlap, intersection between their fanbases, but this is just so niche that it could fail completely. As long as _someone_ hears this song, though, it’ll be worth it. 

Enough people show up to dispel Tyler’s worry, and Jamie starts his part with barely an introduction. Tyler’s buzzing the whole way through, until Jamie’s strumming gets more insistent, and this is Tyler's cue — sitting next to him in board shorts, Vans, a pink Billabong snapback, his electric guitar, and nothing else. He picks up the melody. The crescendo in Jamie's voice, that insistent build-up from hesitant acoustic to powerful, deep vocals, is even more mesmerizing live. They practiced twice before, but never like this, never in front of a crowd of shrieking fans sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of them. It doesn’t even seem to matter that there’s no baseline, no one on drums — just the two of them and their guitars and their hearts, laid bare in front of them. Tyler hopes Jamie can feel the fucking electricity in the crowd, hopes he understands this is all for the song Jamie wrote. 

When the song ends, Tyler just wants to do it over and over again, to repeat that moment until his fingers bleed. Jamie looks like he feels the same. It’s crazy, because Tyler’s played in front of bigger crowds, and Jamie certainly has as well, but there’s something in this particular moment that makes his breath hitch. Like they’ve just tapped into some secret spark that’s always existed within them, but just hadn’t found until now.

After the song, they just take a few requests and fill up the rest of the half-hour time slot, so that the fans don’t feel gipped for taking a chance on their experimental set. Tyler finds that playing with Jamie doesn’t get tiring, even after their big duet.

Marchy emerges from the crowd and slings an arm over his sweaty shoulders. “ _Dude_.”

Tyler’s flushed from the heat and the sun and the performance, but he still feels his cheeks warm. “I know.”

Marchy requests the song that night, when a bunch of them are dicking around on their guitars after hours, drinking inescapably warm beer and shooting the shit. He nudges Pat in the ribs when he does so, shit-eating grin on his smug fucking face. Tyler pretends to be unfazed. Jamie, however, stammers awkwardly, blush visible even in the dark. Jordie and Sid express their emphatic desire to hear it, and when Jamie looks up, his gaze burns right through Tyler.

Tyler nods, and Jamie nods back at him.

They only have their acoustic guitars, because it’s late and they weren’t expecting to have to perform anything other than _Wonderwall_ or other classic drunk requests, but the effect is the same. Jamie starts the song alone, and his voice is so timid that it perfectly conveys the hope in the lyrics. It makes Tyler’s stomach swoop, every time.

Everyone whoops and cheers when his vocals crescendo and Tyler enters the song, and Jamie starts singing through a smile. This time, Tyler starts harmonizing with Jamie on some of the lyrics in the chorus, and he surprises himself by how good it sounds. He’d never trust himself to sing lead on anything, but the way his voice meshes with Jamie’s is unbelievable.

Jordie claps Jamie on the back when they strum out the last chords. Tyler wonders, if Marchy’s right, if his own fucking gut is right, and Jamie wrote this song about him — about _them_ — then how obvious is it to everyone else? How transparent is _he_ for swooning after this guy, so hooked and utterly gone on him? God, he’s so embarrassing.

Eventually, the subject changes, and Shea and PK have a drum-off that consists of them trying to best each other by finding increasingly creative surfaces to drum on. Tyler gets up to take a piss in the bushes. When he turns around afterwards, Jamie is in front of him, sweating through his dumb t-shirt.

“So, I was thinking,” Jamie says, kicking at the dirt a bit, “Would you like to…record the song… with me?"

“Jamie Benn, are you musically proposing to me?” Tyler asks, batting his eyelashes and pressing his hand to his heart.

Jamie rolls his eyes and smiles, obviously glad Tyler diffused the situation with dumb humour, which, frankly, is Tyler’s forte. He drops to one knee, then, and Tyler hates that the mere image is enough to send his heart into desperate palpitations. He still almost dies laughing, when Jamie repeats the question from his new position.

“Yes, a thousand times yes!” He cries, and even though there are loads of people around, he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed about this. 

 

\-------

 

They’ve got a string of shows in Texas, which is totally some sadistic move on the part of whoever the fuck is in charge, because Texas in August burns right through all three layers of Tyler’s skin and practically melts his dick off. When the band unloads the van — the stupid, beloved van; the one with no goddamn AC — and sets up their merch tent, Tyler goes in search of Jamie. He finds him, unsurprisingly, strumming an acoustic in a quiet corner of the venue, wearing one of his large t-shirts with the sleeves cut out, exposing his sides. Jamie argues that wearing those shirts is a preventative measure against an embarrassing farmer’s tan, but Tyler’s countered that having a hick tan is just as bad. _I’d rather that than be a shirtless tool_ , Jamie’d shot back. As he makes his way over to Jamie, Tyler grins, remembering when they went swimming last week and the two strips of skin on either side of Jamie’s torso were ever so slightly tanned.

“Sup, white trash?” Tyler greets, relishing the moment Jamie startles and then settles when he realizes it’s Tyler.

“Don’t be rude,” Jamie answers, in his fake-disciplinary stern voice, “I’m about to make your dreams come true.”

“Is that so?”

“You’re coming on my internationally famous band’s tour bus recording studio to duet with me on a song I wrote for you.” 

Jamie’s probably too into the quip to realize what he’s just said, but Tyler’s not. Tyler heard every word.

“What — for me?”

Jamie’s grin starts to slip a little. “Well, um. With you in mind. I mean, you’re — we spend a lot of time… together.”

Tyler wants to print out the lyrics and highlight all the ambiguous love shit and shove it in Jamie’s face until he specifically confirms that Tyler inspired every single one. Instead, he smiles.

“ _Aw_ , Jameson! You didn’t tell me you wrote a song about me.”

Jamie rolls his eyes, visibly calmer. “Like you didn’t already know.”

It doesn’t make sense, how casually they’re having this conversation — like tossing a ball back and forth, not caring if they drop it. Light and breezy. Tyler can’t see why Jamie would be lying right now, or leading him on, but it’s hardly the grave conversation Tyler imagined, not with Tyler, looming shirtless over Jamie, at nine in the morning in Dallas.

“Anyway, our set’s at six today,” Jamie says, definitely changing the subject and leaving Tyler feeling a little hollow, “we have a signing at noon, but I’ll be around all afternoon.”

“Cool. We play at four, I think. four or four-thirty; I’ll have to double check.”

Jamie considers this. It’s adorable how he really pays attention to everything Tyler says, how he ponders over every word before answering sometimes. “Okay, let’s just do it after my set — like, seven-ish?”

Tyler nods.

The day passes in a blur, Tyler’s anticipation leaving him restless. Playing helps; it lets him release about forty percent of the energy he’d been fostering since this morning. Halfway through, he’s sweating so much he’s genuinely worried he might slip on stage.

“What did you take and where can I get some?” PK asks, when Tyler retrieves a bottle of water by the drum kit to douse himself with. Tyler ignores him.

 

\-------

 

They have a proper _hotel room_ tonight, because they have the day off tomorrow, and Tyler never thought he’d ever be reduced to tears at the idea of a real indoor shower, but here he is. Being one of five grown ass, rank-smelling men clamouring for a shower in their shared hotel room is not one of the finest moments of Tyler’s life, and that is another story entirely.

_meet in front of the hotel in 10?_ Jamie texts, at seven on the nose.

_can’t wait_ , he texts back, because he can’t.

Tyler's written about a hundred songs for about as many people, and he's proud of most of them. He's proud of the ones that made the album, sure. All nine of them. There's no way Brad would've ever let them release an album of a hundred whiny songs about leaving Brampton and about making out with various people in his mom's Kia Sorrento. Fine. Maybe it's a good thing that Jamie's given him enough emotional material to write a hundred more songs, each poignantly addressing the different ways Jamie's smiled at him this past summer, the ways they found each other in a crowd of thousands of people. The way they played music together, and it felt like Tyler was discovering something old and new about himself all over again. 

Tyler’s seen Jamie every day for the past thirty-eight days, and there are three days left of this insane summer camp of a tour, and everything just hits him at once. He sits on the curb in front of the hotel and waits for Jamie.

When he finds Tyler and sits next to him, Tyler notices Jamie must have showered, too; his hair is still wet and sticks to his forehead despite running his hand through it repeatedly.

“You wanna — ?”

“In a minute.”

Tyler feels a million clichés — sunshine in his veins and flowers blooming in his ribs and it's one of those days that he knows he'll be nostalgic for one day, one of those rosy perfect days that he'll look back on with so much fondness his heart will ache. But today's not that day in the obscure future, because it's still _today_ and Jamie's still sitting by his side, gently pressing their legs together. Somehow, being with Jamie makes him feel like every time he ever convinced himself he was in love was child’s play, pale as the Texan clouds in comparison to _this_. He's never felt anything like this before, so utterly desperate for every bit of Jamie he can latch onto. Quiet, funny, solid Jamie, so talented Tyler could weep, and he thinks, even if they don't hook up, and this remains one of the biggest open parentheses of his entire life, it wouldn't be so bad.

Jamie seems to read his mind, then, because he turns his head and looks down at Tyler. "Something on your mind?"

Tyler smiles. "Just thinking. It's been a good summer."

Jamie hums and Tyler tries not to be too obvious about the way he's mentally mapping Jamie's face. Who knows how long it'll be before they see each other again, once this is over.

Wordlessly, Jamie reaches out and covers Tyler's hand with his own. It's a natural motion, familiar even in its novelty. Like they've been holding hands forever, holding hands all summer. 

“Hey,” Jamie says, “this is probably, like, stupid and I won’t be — hurt, or anything, if you say no, but I just figured I’d go for it because — ”

Tyler laughs. “Jamie. Spit it out.”

"Can I kiss you?" Jamie asks, eyes the size of the fucking moon, just like that, like he didn’t just tip Tyler’s universe on its axis. His hand trembles underneath Jamie's.

"Yeah, dude," he answers, voice thin and fragile. Understatement of his entire fucking life.

Jamie leans in, cups Tyler’s jaw, and presses their lips together. Bingo. Easy. Done like dinner. Tyler’s brain short circuits. 

“Jamie,” Tyler says, not quite willing to break the kiss, the gentle slide of Jamie’s tongue against his. Jamie mutters something incoherent in response, and tugs Tyler closer. 

The kissing becomes more desperate, more insistent, and Tyler can feel the moment they both realize it, too. They both know they’re going to have to _do something_ about this, or else drop it entirely. And Tyler would genuinely rather _die_ than do that.

“We should — ” he mumbles against Jamie’s lips, and Jamie is already nodding before he even finishes his sentence.

“My room.” He replies, firm and commanding, and _Jesus_ that’s hot.

He doesn’t know how Jamie managed to get the room to himself; whether that’s just a band thing, or if he had to do something embarrassing like bribe Jordie or put a sock on the doorknob. Not that he totally cares, or is in any way ashamed, grabbing at the meat of Jamie’s ass while he locates the keycard and lets them into the room.

Kissing inside is palpably different from kissing outside. Outside, with the sunset and ambient noise, it’s so easy to get lost in the dream-like quality of the moment. Inside, there are no distractions; just his body and Jamie’s (considerably larger) body, pressing fierce and hot together when Jamie crowds him against the door. Tyler can feel that they’re both already hard, and for all that the August evening feels like a movie, he’s _really_ glad they’re indoors for this.

First time hooking up with Jamie and they get to do it in a fucking Days Inn in the middle of Texas. Tyler can’t believe his luck. This has been, like, his exact spank bank fantasy for the past month and a half. He’s suddenly so thankful they both got to shower beforehand, because Tyler doesn’t have to be self-conscious about how much he reeks when Jamie starts nosing around Tyler’s neck, kissing his way down the column of it. Tyler’s breath hitches, because not only does Jamie smell _clean_ , but he smells _good_ , like the really good kind of Old Spice or something. He smells like he can bench three hundred pounds, like he can pin Tyler down and fuck him until he _cries_ , like he can sit in the back of his bus recording a song about them with his brave, raspy, lisping voice. 

“This is, like —” Jamie starts, and he already sounds _wrecked_ , “ _all summer_. I wanted this — ”

Tyler wants to shake him. “Me _too_ ,” he says, and then Jamie’s hand is on his dick so he stops talking.

Tyler’s almost embarrassed by the sound Jamie makes when Tyler reaches his hand down to wrap around him, but this whole thing, the two of them jerking each other off in tandem, is just so utterly ridiculous, Tyler can barely believe it.

“I,” Jamie gasps, “I thought you weren’t down.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, _what_?” Tyler demands, not tugging on Jamie’s dick anymore but not even marginally loosening his grip. “ _Me_ not down? _You rejected me_.”

Jamie straightens, suddenly, and Tyler notices appreciatively that his grip doesn’t relent, either. “ _Rejected_ you? _You?_ ”

“Yeah, dude, in Michigan. You didn’t kiss me. I thought for sure that was a sign.”

And then Jamie is blushing furiously, not meeting Tyler’s eyes, as though he doesn’t know everything he fucking does is perfect. “In case you haven’t noticed, I get in my own head a lot.”

Tyler wants to laugh, because this is _hysterical_ and also really sad, but instead he yanks Jamie’s torn up t-shirt collar and pulls him in for a vicious, bruising kiss. Thankfully, Jamie gets the hint and kisses back, and _shit_ , he’s good at that.

“You’re such a good kisser,” Tyler tells him, dreamily, with the part of his brain that is just a mellow dope in love with Jamie, rather than the part that is, simultaneously, painfully horny.

And — huh. In love with Jamie.

Sounds about right.

 

\-------

 

They don’t end up recording the song, that night. _Obviously_.

 

\-------

 

When Tyler sneaks back to his room, only a floor up, all the guys are still awake. They look probably more alert than Tyler’s seen them all summer.

PK punches Beau in the arm. “Dude, I fucking _told you_! Pay up.”

Beau groans in response and reaches into his back pocket to fish out his wallet. Tyler feels like he’s on another planet, he’s so blissed out, but even he isn’t thick enough to miss that.

“ _What_?”

“Beau here had zero confidence in you, my man,” PK explains, happily accepting Beau’s twenty, “but I believed in you. I knew you guys would screw.”

“Who still says _screw_?” Marchy demands. PK shrugs.

As it turns out, _multiple people_ had bets on them figuring out their shit long enough to hook up, including — fuck — _Flower_ , of all people. 

(“Did you just bet everyone?”

“It’s such a great icebreaker, dude, you don’t even _know_.”)

_sid just had 2 give shea $100_ , Jamie texts him and Tyler _loses it,_ because, fucking rockstars, man.

 

EPILOGUE

 

In the Fall, Marchy and PK collectively decide it’s time to get serious about their next album. Practices are twice as long, twice as gruelling, and they all return to their varied ways of dealing with creative pressure and writer’s block. Tyler can’t say his writer’s block is that bad, this time around, though. 

They’re milling about at the apartment Marchy and Bergy share, when Beau gets an incoming Skype call from Jamie.

“Hi, dad!” Beau greets, because he’s a tool. Jamie laughs, though, because Jamie’s the best.

“Get out, dude!” Tyler shrieks, snagging the computer and kicking at Beau unsuccessfully.

“It’s _my_ laptop, though!” Beau replies, but thankfully leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

Tyler smiles like a dope when the connection picks up enough that he can see Jamie clearly through the Skype window.

“Hey, you.” Jamie says, and Tyler can’t even give him shit about how corny he sounds, because Tyler's equally corny with the way Jamie’s voice makes him melt.

“Hey yourself,” Tyler answers, “So, I know we’re seeing each other in a week and everything, but I thought you should know, I wrote something.”

Jamie quirks an eyebrow, "Is that right?”

Tyler just grabs his acoustic, grin stupid and wide. “So, it's not done yet. But the working title is _Texas is for Lovers_.”

"Sounds epic."

"It is."

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my [writing blog](https://oldjolt.tumblr.com)?


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